


Wounds

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, Potentially Disturbing Themes, Violence, check the author's notes for more details, communication what communication, mature themes but no explicit depiction, not graphic, not really fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Frank and Red have a thing, but the thing becomes more and more violent.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 26
Kudos: 117
Collections: Fratt Week





	Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> This is in no way a depiction of a healthy, sweet, fluffy relationship.  
> If you need more warnings, check the end notes - more detailed TW, but also a bit spoilery.
> 
> Written for the [FrattWeek](http://frattweek.tumblr.com/) prompt _wounds_.  
> Big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the hand-holding and beta.

It was a thing.

They had a thing.

Frank wasn’t quite sure was to call it; it was what it was. It’s not that he’d been entirely celibate since Maria had been taken from him, but it had never become regular. It had never become a _thing_.

But now it had, and that meant having to suffer through Red’s occasional rants about Frank’s methods and trying not to strangle him when the damn idiot took more risks than he should. Which was way more often than Frank was comfortable with, but what they had was just a thing. Teaming up on the regular, and sometimes fucking, didn’t give him any right to call Red out on his shit; they’d made no promises. It wasn’t _that_ kind of thing.

So yeah, some nights they worked together; and yeah, sometimes they ended the night at his place or Red’s. Frank always left before sunrise, but Red… Red didn’t like it. When they ended up in Frank’s bed (or on his couch, or… you know, places) he wouldn’t stay; he’d talk about work in the morning and flee Frank’s apartment as soon as he could, but when they were at his place he’d complain as soon as Frank tried to escape. Somehow he knew, even when he’d been fast asleep the minute before. He’d tried rolling over Frank to pin him down, making stupid snuffling sounds into Frank’s shoulder, whining about the cold, and promising coffee and baked goods.

Frank left anyway.

Sometimes, when it was cold and wet and dark outside, he thought maybe he could stay. Just that time, just the once. But he didn’t want to go down that road; they already had a thing, and that was more than Frank should let himself get into. What he was doing – what really mattered, not the little odd jobs he did here and there when he needed some quick cash or a cover – wasn’t really compatible with letting anyone too close. One day, he’d run out of luck; one day, he’d meet the bullet that had always been meant for him. He was on borrowed time anyway; he had been since his family had been shot down. He should have died with them; he’d never know why the bullet in his head didn’t kill him.

Red, on the other hand… Red had a civilian life; he had friends, a job, and even a church. One day, he’d have to make a choice between saving people and living with them. Frank had made that choice years ago, but Red liked to pretend he could do both. It wouldn’t last; it couldn’t.

Just like their thing.

So, Frank left before sunrise. Red shouldn’t get ideas about their thing.

After a particularly long night where they’d staked out a bunch of smugglers in the damp cold for hours before finally getting the drop on them, Red insisted they go to an all-night diner to warm themselves up.

“I’m buying,” Red said.

“I can pay.”

“I’m inviting you.”

Frank shrugged and went with it. It was a greasy joint not too far from the docks where they’d been freezing their balls off; the fake leather seats were worn, even torn in places, and the tables must have been there since the seventies. How this place could still stand Frank had no idea, but he zipped up his sweater over the skull and then let Red throw his stupid mask and batons and ropes in his van. Once they looked marginally less like who they actually were they went in, Frank wearing a baseball hat low over his eyes and Red with the glasses and cane he’d stashed in the van’s glovebox one night. _Just in case_ , he’d said. He’d planned this, the little fucker.

The fries were among the best Frank had ever had; they reminded him of a place where he’d often taken Maria and the kids.

He was too caught up in his memories to notice at first, but when he did he was both annoyed and unsurprised. Red was chatting up the waitress; he was flashing his pearly whites at her, doing the full harmless yet charming blind guy routine as he asked her for more fries and could she recommend some milkshakes and _What is your name; you have a nice voice_.

Frank was seething. They were there for food and warmth, not to flirt. He didn’t say anything, not when Red explained the cut on his forehead as the unfortunate encounter between a door and his face, not when he said he and his _friend_ still had a long road ahead. The waitress, of course, cooed some more and brought them two hot, tall coffees to go.

Red paid and they walked back to the van; they weren’t that far from the Kitchen but it was late enough it was actually early and Red had left some of his gear in the back. Frank drove, drank the two coffees, and didn’t say a word; Red sat all smug and smirking in the passenger seat. It was infuriating, and Frank was infuriated, and he followed Red to his building and up the stairs and into the apartment and against the kitchen counter and on the bed.

When the first light of day started to lighten up the sky Frank was still there and Red hadn’t stirred, not even when Frank had tried to leave. He didn’t want to slink out while Red was still fast asleep; he didn’t want to be that kind of asshole. Red had always woken up when he left; he'd always known. But now he wasn't waking up, and Frank could see the bruises clearly on Red’s pale body, the blood dark under his skin and the scars. He’d felt them under his hands, but he hadn’t realized there were that many. He pulled the covers down a little to see better and he found more old scars but also fresh marks on Red’s sides, his hips. Deep scratches, right where Frank had held him tight as they’d fucked. He didn’t remember holding him _that_ tight, digging his nails in _that_ hard. He hadn’t wanted to leave a trace of himself on Red’s skin.

He touched one, gently; he thought of how long it would take for them to fade, of the colors changing under the skin. He spread out his fingers, recreated the position of his hand over Red’s hip, wondered if he’d ever done that before. He didn’t remember, but then again he’d never stayed late enough to see them. He’d never really seen Red entirely naked, just felt him. Red pushed into Frank’s hand over the marks with a contented sigh before curling around his pillow once more, and Frank decided enough was enough. He got up, pulled the covers back up over Red’s bruises and cuts and scratches, and he left before daylight truly filled the apartment.

Red wouldn't expect anything else from him, after all.

But who could guess what Red wanted? Frank wasn’t sure the altar boy himself knew.

After that time, though, he became even more of a little shit. Frank hadn’t thought that possible but it turned out that yes, it was. They got into the habit of going to one diner or another after a long night and the flirting ramped up; over pancakes or sandwiches or waffles, Red would make Frank grind his teeth as he charmed an extra slice of pie or another scoop of ice cream out of whoever was waiting on their table. Then there was the gas station attendant who gave him the previous day’s leftover donuts, a security guard whose father owed his life to the (previously horned) idiot and let them in an office building that led them to the perfect sniper’s nest for Frank to watch their mark, and the 24/7 CVS where he went in to get an ACE bandage for Frank, who’d managed to twist his ankle. Red came out with, of all things, a small teddy bear. Food and coffee were bad enough, but that? What did Red think they were doing?

“I told the cashier it was for my niece,” he said as he thrust the toy into Frank’s hands. “It’s very soft.”

It was also discolored on one side as if it had stayed in the window for too long, but Red wouldn't know that.

“I’m not your niece.”

“Well I wasn’t going to say it was for the Punisher, was I?”

Frank grunted and wrapped his ankle before driving them back to the Kitchen. How Red did it he had no idea, and _why_ he did it? That was even more incomprehensible. On the passenger side, Red looked way too fucking smug and Frank did his best to wipe that smirk from his face as soon as he could.

Afterwards, when Murdock was finally asleep, he turned on the light on his phone and looked at the marks he’d left, again. It had become more and more common, especially after Red pulled one of his stunts. He had a death wish, and Frank just didn’t know… a soldier with a death wish didn’t last, he couldn’t. Frank had torn some of Red’s stitches open this time, but he would rather put the bruises there himself, hear Red’s grunts and sharp inhales and know they were from _him_ , rather than find them and know they were from Red’s own stupidity. If he had to bleed then Frank wanted to be the only one to make him, but all Red wanted was to bleed for the entire city. Altar boy, he was a fucking martyr. He didn’t care about what Frank wanted.

What they had was just a thing and didn’t mean shit, so Frank shook his head, threw the toy on the pillow next to Red’s face, and left before he woke up.

Frank didn’t see him for two weeks after that. No sign of Red anywhere near Frank went: a glaring sign that Red was avoiding him… or maybe that before, he’d been looking for the Punisher on purpose. Of the two, Frank wasn’t sure what was worse.

Finally, he spotted Red limping out of a somewhat rundown building in Harlem, of all places. He was wearing his usual getup minus mask and ropes and looked like a guy who’d had one too many, unsteady gait and all. Frank had just bought some ammo from a guy he knew, so he threw his heavy bag into the back of his van and slammed the door closed. He was about to cross the street when a woman ran out of the building Red had just left and from her gestures, she was trying to talk him into coming back inside. Red only shook his head, which made him more wobbly; but then the woman made to take his arm and Frank’s blood boiled. He put himself between the woman and Red and looked down his broken nose at her, and she glared right back.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The idiot leaned on him and said, “Huh, that’s Frank,” his voice a bit slurred as if from blood loss. Probably from blood loss. “Hi, Frank.”

“Red.”

“Frank, _the_ Frank?”

“Yes. He didn’t want the soft teddy, Claire. It was a present. He didn’t want the present. That’s rude, you know? Giving back a present.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re a mess,” Frank told the idiot. “Should you even be out?”

“Yes I should! City needs me.”

Frank ignored him and eyed the shiny patches on Red’s clothes, the tear in his thin, long-sleeved shirt. Yeah, he’d bled a lot.

“He shouldn’t,” the woman said. For some reason Frank couldn't guess, she was glaring at him. “He should be resting, and nothing else.”

“I’ll drive him home.”

“Like hell you are, big guy.”

Frank frowned. Who was she to order him around? “You’re not my CO, lady.”

“And yet you can fuck right off. Come on, Matt; I’ll put you up for tonight, all right?”

“Yeah?” Frank rolled his eyes at how pathetic Red sounded.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay then.” Red just limped around Frank and almost took a nosedive after stumbling over the curb. He managed to avoid smashing his face on the asphalt and wrapped both hands around the railing near the building entrance. “Oops.”

The woman, Claire, sighed. “And of course the elevator hasn’t been working all week.”

“I can take him off your hands.”

“Why are you still here?”

“I…”

“This,” she said, pointing at Red, “is your fault. I’m not letting you take him away.”

“What about taking him up?”

“Up?”

“To your place.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“He’s not evil,” Red mumbled from around the railing. Ringing endorsement, yeah. “But I don’t need him,” he went on. Then he half-sat, half-fell on the couple stairs that led to the building; the woman crouched in front of Red to check he hadn’t made whatever he’d done to himself worse.

“Why am I not surprised,” she said. Claire turned back to Frank and sized him up. “Could you carry him up 6 floors?”

“Sure.”

“And then leave?”

Frank frowned. “Think you can order me around?”

“I don’t need him,” Red repeated from the stairs.

“What you _need_ is to be lying somewhere that’s not the sidewalk, and my apartment is right here.”

Murdock managed to sit up on his own then took a break to pant against the railing. “Don’t need him.”

“You can’t even stand on your own two feet, Red.”

“Fuck you.”

“Thought you’d be more eloquent, what with the fancy degrees.”

“Jesus,” Claire said. “The both of you… Come on, Matt, lean on me.”

“Thought you said I could help.”

“No,” both Red and his lady friend said.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated. “I have no reason to trust you, and you keep hovering like a total creep. Go away.”

“He’s not a creep,” Red mumbled into her shoulder. Frank smirked at her, but then Red went on. “He’s a killer.”

“Goddammit, are you going to start that shit now?”

“Never stopped.”

“Fine, no, you never quit.”

Red looked like he was closer to fainting with every step and Frank watched them carefully. Right when he saw the collapse coming, Frank leapt up and caught him before he fell down and brought this Claire lady down with him. “Six floors? Were you really thinking you’d make it?” They were still on the stairs leading to the building door.

She glared at him but didn’t protest when he hefted Red over his shoulders. “He’s angry at you,” she said instead.

“He always is.” Frank started the trek up slowly; Red wasn’t a lightweight. Not big but all hard muscles, as Frank knew very well. And more blood than you’d think could be inside one body, although it looked like he’d once again lost more than anyone should. He wasn’t entirely unconscious but Frank chose to ignore his mutterings: no, he _wasn’t_ going to put him down, however much Red whined about it.

“How is any of this my fault, anyway?” Frank asked as they reached the third floor.

“You’ve known him for a while, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you got involved with him.”

“We’re not _involved_.”

“Sure; you’re not involved.” She climbed past him and fished the keys out of her pocket as she went. “He’s been acting out as Daredevil for weeks and Misty said reports of _your_ activity have mentioned an increase in the body count. You’re acting out too.”

What a load of bullshit. “I’m not a kid. _He’s_ sulking; _I_ have more time to do my job. End of story.”

“You do realize killing people isn’t a job, right?” She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

Ah. Frank could see why she’d say that. “You a doc?” Gauze, saline bags, suture kits, a stethoscope… some equipment was still in a large bag on the floor and some had been left lying around an empty patch on the floor, probably where Red had been.

“Nurse.” She switched on the light and the darker stains on the used stuff were clearly blood. “I try to heal people, not end them.”

“You must like his second chances, redemption, and shit spiel then.”

“I don’t, actually. Especially not when it’s another reason I end up having to sew him back up together again.”

“He’s no good at self-preservation.”

“No, he isn’t.” Her eyes slid past Frank’s; she was remembering something, something to do with Red. Maybe they’d had a thing, too? Not that Frank cared. “You know, he’s always talking about the city, about helping people; it eats him up. City’s eating him up. _We’re_ also people he wants to save, whether we want it or not.”

“He knows I don’t.” Frank didn’t put Red down until she’d pulled out the sofa-bed and thrown a sheet over it. “Here?” he asked when she was done. She nodded, so he let Red slide from his shoulders to the bed, holding his stupid head so it didn’t knock on the armrest on the way down. He had taken enough hits in the head, yeah? Didn’t need more. Frank could feel the nurse’s gaze on him; he ignored it. She was gauging him and probably finding him wanting. He didn’t give a shit. Red’s eyes fluttered when Frank’s hand curved against his skull after settling him down, but he kept quiet.

“Right.” She sat next to Red’s hips and checked his wounds. There was a nasty cut on his side and some stitches had torn; she sighed and went to work. “You shouldn’t stay,” she said. “Not you, Matt,” she added when the idiot made a noise.

“Frank?” he mumbled.

“He’s leaving.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to rest, and then we need to have a talk.”

“Oh.”

She finished her stitches before starting on Red’s boots, and she didn’t stop Frank when he helped her. Soon enough they’d removed the boots and taken off his torn shirt and stained pants, and he was sound asleep before she’d thrown a quilt over him.

“You’re still here,” she said.

Frank shrugged. She hadn’t complained when he’d been helping, right?

“Coffee?”

He looked outside. It wasn’t quite morning yet, but it would be soon. “Yeah, sure.”

He followed her into the kitchen and watched her wash her hands, start the coffee machine, get milk and sugar and mugs and cookies out. It looked like a ritual, something you’d do to center yourself. Frank could understand that; that’s what cleaning his weapons or oiling his boots did for him. He sat on a stool when she pointed at it and waited, his hands folded on the table. There was a bit of blood under the nails; Red’s blood. She directed him to the bathroom when he asked; he hated feeling the dried, red flakes there. Red wasn’t someone whose blood he wanted on his skin, and if sometimes _he_ put it there he washed it off right again. Knowing Red had flirted with death again, feeling it on his fingers… Frank didn’t like it.

“So,” she said after he’d come back and sat in front of a steaming mug. “What’s your deal?”

“What deal?”

“You and Matt.”

“No deal. We just work together sometimes.”

“And?”

“And we fuck. You got a problem with that?” He studied her. “You’re jealous, maybe?”

She threw her hands up. “I know better than to start that kind of thing with him,” she said. “He’s a martyr; it never ends well for martyrs.”

Well, she really knew him. “He’s an idiot.”

“Uh huh. Do you know how we met?” Frank shook his head. “Found him in a dumpster. He was a mess, let me tell you. He’d lost too much blood, he had several broken ribs, a concussion, a pneumothorax… and yet he got back up to go save a boy from kidnappers. I still can’t believe he did it.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” She narrowed her eyes. “He also has a terrifyingly high pain threshold.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not entirely sure he enjoys it, though.”

Her pointed gaze was making Frank’s neck itch and he downed half his coffee to forget it. “Just say what you want to say, okay?”

“Whenever I examined him lately, I found… marks. Bruises, cuts and wounds that fit his fighting, and some stuff that could be from something else. A really, really rough something else, that won’t let some of his wounds heal properly.”

“And?” She looked at him like he was stupid. “What, you think everyone’s into flowers and shit?”

“He talked a little. Said he and you had, and I quote, a thing.”

“Yeah. So?”

“He said you’ve had a thing for months.”

“Maybe.”

“How long has it been that violent?”

“He’s a fucking annoying little shit, you know that?” She jerked back and glanced at the door. He’d been loud, Frank realized. Too loud. “He’s always ranting about not killing and letting assholes get a second chance and he’s never giving himself one, right? Never. Always trying to get himself killed for people who don’t…” He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“People who don’t deserve him?”

“They all want a piece of him, lady. You ever seen him in action?” She nodded. “People, they either want to kill him or to save him. It’s in their eyes, you know? He goes some place, he smiles, he gets whatever he wants. They want to adopt him or to fuck him.” He narrowed his eyes. “You ever fuck him?”

“What is it to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You might be the Punisher, but you’re also a lousy liar.” She topped his coffee and hers, and he hated that knowing little smile on her face. “You’re jealous.”

“No.”

She sipped her coffee, the corner of her mouth still turned up. She was laughing at him; it was no wonder she and Red were thick as thieves. They had to have fucked; not that he cared. He focused on his drink and ignored her.

After a while, she stood up and picked their empty mugs to set them in the sink. “Look, what you’re doing together shouldn’t be my problem.”

“Yeah.”

“But neither of you know _why_ you’re doing it, so you’re just hurting each other.”

“He likes it.”

“Do you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you should take some time to think about your relationship, and then have a good long talk.”

“We don’t have a relationship.” Frank almost spat the word. It was a stupid word for what he and Red had. It was just a thing.

“Ah, yes. Sorry, forgot.” She turned to lean back against the counter, looking down at him. “You can hurt and manipulate each other as you like, but you should be aware of _why_ you’re doing it.”

“I’m not manipulating him.” She rolled her eyes, and he suddenly realized something. “Fuck. The little _shit_.” He pushed his chair back and was almost back to the sofa-bed when she stopped him.

“Let him rest,” she said. “Talk about it when you’re both…” She waved at Red. It was hard to tell if he was asleep or unconscious. “And for God’s sake don’t have that talk here; I like my furniture, okay?”

Frank shrugged her hand off, but nodded.

“I can help, I’m _willing_ to help him,” she went on. “What he does… I believe in it. But I can’t see him self-destruct, not again.”

Frank stared down at Red, then at her. Then he had to look away from both. It wasn’t what she thought it was, but it wasn’t what he’d thought it was, either. “I never hit my wife,” he said. “Maria, she… we had shouting matches sometimes, yeah. She knew what I was but she loved me, you know? She’d tell me I’m a stupid asshole.” He paused; he didn’t want his voice to break. “I miss her.” She’d tell him to kick his ass into gear and be smart for once, use his brains. She’d tell him to quit dicking around. They hadn’t, he and Maria, and they’d been happy, right? But… “I wasn’t who I am now.”

“Excuses.”

Frank thought of the skull he’d left in the van, of the bullet in his head. “I should go.”

“Yes.”

So, with a last glance at the bloody cotton pads and nitrile gloves and wrappings on the floor, he left. He heard her lock the door after him.

As he took the stairs down to the street, too many things were rattling around in his head. Maria, waking up in hospital, the discolored toy, the noises Red made when Frank dug his fingers in right where he’d caught a hit, right where it hurt the most. Frank thought of the acid in his gut when Red flirted shamelessly with the waitresses and got extras, of all the almost-burned coffees and not-quite-stale pastries he’d shoved in Frank’s hands; how he had to know how _furious_ it all made Frank. The wounds and the smiles and the coffees, they all rushed around in Frank’s head. He remembered how Red tried to get him to stay like Maria never did, when it was time to go back on tour. She’d known he was coming back to her, always. She’d never doubted him. She’d had his ring on her hand, she’d had his boy and his girl and she’d had all of Frank around her little finger.

But then she died, she was _killed;_ and now Frank was not the man he’d been before.

And yet. Yet, he could choose what he did, he could choose to open his eyes and stop taking Red’s bullshit and his own. And if Red wanted something he should fucking say it. Frank was done with their thing. 

* * *

When Matt woke up on Claire’s sofa-bed she listed all the wounds she’d found on him, then she told him to take some time off or else.

“No more nice night nurse,” she said. “If you’re that hellbent on killing yourself, I don’t want to see it. Do you understand?”

“I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Your entire body needs a timeout. You can’t push it anymore, Matt. You just can’t.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“No, you _really_ _can’t_.” She poked at his ribs and he tried (and failed) not to wince. “If you don’t give yourself a few weeks to heal, you’ll break those for good. And if you do, you risk puncturing a lung.”

“I’ve fought with broken ribs before. I was fine.”

“You were lucky. Now, what about this?” She pressed on his bruised kidneys. “And this?” He hissed. But it was only a sprained wrist: nothing too bad, right? “And _this_?”

He batted her hand away from his shoulder. “I reset it right away.”

“You reset it because you dislocated it. Your meditation can only do so much; and last night you lost quite a bit of blood.”

“Not that much.”

“Not that much _if_ you hadn’t already been exhausted, underfed, dehydrated,” she pinched the skin on his stomach, “and in pain from all the injuries you’ve collected recently and never let heal.”

“Look, fine, I get it. I’ve relied too much on your kindness, and…”

“Sit back down.” He did. “What do you remember from last night?”

Matt pulled the blanket back up over his legs. He was a bit cold, but he’d just go home and have a hot shower and then it would be time for work. He could be there by 10, 10:30 tops. He’d be fine. “I knocked on your window, and you opened, and you let me crash here. Thank you, by the way.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Matt frowned. “We… talked?”

“Yes, we did. You talked about the not-a-boyfriend again, and you were less and less coherent by the minute. I finally put two and two together: all the popped stitches and bruises that wouldn’t heal, that was all from him.”

“It’s fine.” He twisted a bit of fabric between his fingers. “He’s not… It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“I, uh.” Matt deliberately released the blanket; he didn’t want to end tearing it up. “I don’t mind.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s like…” What was it like? “It’s like your stitches,” he said.

“Like a medical procedure? Really, Matt?”

“Yes. No. Sort of.” He felt naked. He rarely did, even when he was; he’d forgotten long ago the way people looked at his dad’s battered face after a fight. The way their eyes lingered, the way they moved on to him then, probably wondering what kind of father a washed-out boxer could be. Fine, so maybe he hadn’t forgotten after all. He did remember using a suture needle on his dad’s face, the praise, the feeling of closeness. “When I touch them, they remind me of you. That you made them, for me.”

“I’d rather not have to.”

“But you do.”

“I’m not going to let you die if I can do something about it.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you.” He didn’t say it enough.

He felt her touch on his cheek, soft and fleeting but still comforting. Familiar. He sighed, leaning into it to feel it just a second longer. “And how is what he does to you like…” She breathed out slowly. “They’re a reminder?”

“He always leaves. He does, but not those. They stay.” He smiled at her, let his teeth show a bit. “I’m not a victim, you know. I piss him off until he’s angry. I make him do it.” He was in control, really; she had to understand that.

“Have you ever thought of asking him to stay, instead?”

“He won’t. We’re not… It’s not like that.”

“Right. And it’s clearly working for you, too.”

“It’s just a bit of rough sex, nothing I can’t take. I _want_ it. I’m sure you saw worse at the hospital.”

“Sure. People who didn’t know what they were doing, people who didn’t talk and went too far.”

“We’re not like that.” Matt was starting to be annoyed by this conversation; Claire didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t get it. “I should go.”

He stood up and pulled on the clothes she handed him; an old shirt, his pants still caked with blood around the waist. He hoped it didn’t show too much on the dark fabric; there was more than one reason why he always ordered black. Once he’d put on his boots, she stopped him with a hand around his arm.

“Think about what you really want, okay? And then talk, instead of hurting each other.”

“It’s not what you think; you just don’t get it.” Matt shook her off and stepped to her window, but she spoke again.

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about here.” She patted his chest, right above his heart. “Think about it, okay?”

He shrugged and stepped onto the fire escape. His every muscle felt stiff and uncooperative, but the rooftop express would be faster and more incognito than him walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen sans cane but with pants stiff with his own blood.

“Okay.” Right before jumping off he turned back and found her fingers, squeezed them. Parting like that, with something bitter between them… it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Thank you, Claire. For everything.” For patching him up, for letting him, for listening. For caring, even if she was misguided. “Really.”

“Just… you take care, all right?”

He grinned. “You know me.”

He heard her whispered, “Yes, that’s what worries me,” as he was stepping on the roof.

Some people should have more faith in him.

Anyway, Claire’s concern was pointless; Frank had fucked off to parts unknown. Matt couldn't find a trace of him; his old place was empty and he didn’t hear anything about the Punisher. Not that he was really looking for him, he just could have used some backup on a couple things was all. He wasn’t worried; Frank could take care of himself and they weren’t… they weren’t anything.

So Matt took a few days off, and after that went back to putting the fear of the devil in whoever tried to fuck with the Kitchen all on his own, as he'd done for years before. He didn’t need anyone. And just before sunup he’d get back home, take care of whatever needed taking care of, and catch some zzz’s before work. He went to St. Agnes a few times on his lunch break when there was something he couldn't do himself, and Maggie’s cold hands and colder needles helped. She didn’t say anything when he started coming back to her for that kind of help, but of course he caved in. The weight of her pointed silence on the topic was just too much, and so he finally talked as she was working on the cut on his shoulder blade.

“I had a nurse friend,” he said.

“Hm.”

“I think she got fed up with me showing up bleeding on her doorstep.”

“Did she, now.” Maggie’s finger accidentally-on-purpose dug into a still-tender bruise on his lower back. “So I’m plan B, then? I assume she’s young and pretty.”

“She’s, uh. She’s not old.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Right.” She snipped the last thread and started packing her kit. “There are some leftovers from yesterday’s dinner, if you’re hungry.”

Matt pulled his shirt back on and turned to face her as he did the buttons up. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Maggie said carefully. Too carefully. “Some of your more recent scars, those I hadn’t seen before.” she paused again, and Matt braced himself. “They didn’t heal properly, like you’d torn them open again and again.”

“Um.”

“And from the face you’re making, I’m assuming it’s not just that you got hit again in the same place. You wouldn't look that shifty.”

“It, uh, happens.”

“I know it does, and I also know how it should look. Is she that bad of a nurse?”

“She’s very good.”

“She probably doesn’t like working for nothing, then.”

“Uh, no.”

“Matthew.”

He lifted the face of his watch to check the time and tried not to sigh in relief. “I should get back to work, we’re meeting a client in less than an hour.”

“Your office is twenty minutes from here.”

He sat back on the cot she kept for him under the church. “It’s… I had a thing, with a, uh. Someone else who also, you know.”

“Punches teeth in to make up for her sins?”

Matt couldn't help a little laugh. “More like shoots them, but yeah. And, uh.” Well, there it was. Truth, she deserved the truth from him. Right under the altar, too. “Not a she.” He waited, all his senses on alert. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to that.

“That’s new,” she said after a while. Her heartbeat sped up a little, and his heart sank. “Or maybe it’s not? I haven’t always been… I have missed a lot of your life,” she added carefully.

Oh. “It’s, uh. Not new. Not frequent, but… not new. Not in a long while, though.”

“All right.” She sat next to him on the cot, but she didn’t touch him. That wasn’t how they were, Matt told himself. It was normal for them; he knew it was. “So you got yourself a violent boyfriend? He… hurt you?”

“No! No, not like that. It wasn’t like that, we weren’t _boyfriends_. It was just, sometimes we helped… we gave each other a… Ugh.”

“Do go on,” she said. She sounded entertained; so much for Christian charity.

“We worked together when we had the same targets, and it just… happened. Sometimes.” He sighed. “And then it got a bit, you know.”

“Violent?”

“It wasn’t anything I didn’t want.” Matt had had time to think about it, since his conversation with Claire. It hadn’t really brought clarity, just a general sense of having fucked up. Again. “I, uh, pushed him into it.” Goaded Frank, did everything he could to piss him off, to make his heart rate speed up and his anger rise and… “He got fed up with it, I think. With me.”

“Oh, Matthew.”

“He left.” Because Matt had to sabotage everything, like Foggy could attest. Except not everyone had Fog’s forgiving heart.

Maggie kept silent for a while. “It doesn’t have to hurt, you know,” she finally said. He opened his mouth but she cut him off before he could start. “I don’t mean… well, I can’t say I get it, but whatever it was you had with him, whatever the name you put on it, you miss it.”

“No.”

“Don’t you lie to me, young man.” The way she said that was the exact same way she’d said it countless of times, from the day he’d arrived to St. Agnes. “I’m guessing he’s not the talking type, and you’re not any better.”

“I’m a lawyer, I’m good at talking.” Her silence was very loud. “I just pushed him too far, that’s all; he’s not the kind to let things go. And I… I’ve got the devil in me.”

“Don’t quote your grandmother at me; she kept…” Maggie’s voice rose up then stopped. She was breathing more deeply, and Matt wondered why.

“She used to say – ”

“I know what she used to say. Jack…” She cleared her throat. “Your father. He’d listened a little too well to her.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked when she didn’t elaborate.

“He lacked self-confidence, sometimes. He believed the only thing he could do was box, that he wouldn't be able to be anything outside of the ring. That all he had was his fists. He wanted something else for you.”

“I betrayed him. I promised I wouldn't, and look at me now.”

“Well, you do have that law degree.” Her fingers brushed his, light and quick. “He was very proud of you; he kept saying you were so smart.”

“You… talked?”

“The Kitchen isn’t that big, Matthew.” Oh. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even _imagined_. She stood up and took a few steps away, and Matt heard her hands brush her apron, brush away the past. They never dwelt on it, the few times it came into their conversations. “As for your… friend. Even if you say you pushed him into it, he still hurt you. He didn’t have to do that.”

“I liked it. I wanted it.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No!”

“Maybe you should.”

Matt scowled. “What’s next, going to couple’s therapy? Please.”

“Well, you’re the one suggesting it.”

It was too much. What foot did she have to stand on? She’d left – she’d… she’d _left_. She had _nothing_ to stand on, and Foggy would tear him a new one if he was late for their appointment with Mrs. Saachvili. He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair where he’d dropped it, unfolded his cane, and walked out without another word. But when he stuck his hand in his pocket he found a few cards that hadn’t been there before.

Once at the office, he showed it to Foggy and asked what was on it.

“It’s a domestic abuse helpline,” he replied, “and a general counseling one. How did it end in your pocket?”

“Uh, someone gave it to me.”

“From the mention of your favorite church on them, I’m assuming you got it from St. Agnes?”

“Right. Might be useful, you know?” Foggy wasn’t moving, and Matt could just tell Fogs was staring at him. “For a client, I mean.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll pin them on the board in the waiting room, okay?”

It was really a couple chairs in a corridor, but they still called it the waiting room. “Sure.”

“Want me to add the numbers to your phone? So you can give them to a client.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. For a client, yes.”

Well, that hadn’t been awkward at all. He’d never been that happy to have someone arrive early for their appointment.

Maggie never mentioned Frank again, Matt never called the numbers she gave him (although he did give them to a few clients), and Claire didn’t ask about it when they met again one night he found her and Colleen while looking for Danny. They were trying to get him to sit still while wrapping a wound on his thigh so Matt just popped in, said hi, and left again after some stilted small talk. He’d manage those goons on his own, no problem. Sure, it would have been quicker with Danny, but a bunch of henchmen guarding some smuggled weapons wasn’t going to stop him.

He made his way back to the docks and waited for their shipment to get there. He didn’t have to wait for long; his detour by the dojo had almost made him late. At least he’d arrived before most of the gang, so he was well-hidden by the time the ship docked and they started unloading. One crate, two crates… He stopped counting at ten, cut off the lights when he reached the circuit breaker that fed power to the warehouse they were stacking the crates in, and dove into the fray. It was all pretty routine by now; he tried to keep his focus on the smugglers but something was niggling at his attention. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, until he finally heard it.

A slow, steady heartbeat; bullets that didn’t miss: one shot, one body hitting the ground. A whispered, “Two incoming. Take cover, Red,” and as soon as he did and pressed his palms over his ears he felt the pressure of an explosion, then another, on the other side of the warehouse. The rest of the goons were quickly dispatched and soon enough it was just them, him and Frank, face to face behind a familiar van.

“Want a lift? Cops are gonna be here quick.”

Matt just stood there like an idiot. He hadn’t expected Frank. He hadn’t expected help, and now the adrenaline was wearing off he felt off-kilter. “I, uh.” He licked his lips. “You hungry? I could eat,” he croaked.

“Really. After all the shit you’ve pulled, that’s what you're going for.”

“Shit? What shit? _You’re_ the one who just disappeared!”

“Jesus, Red, are you making a scene now?”

Frank sounded amused, and it made Matt’s blood boil. “Fuck you! You just – you left without a word, and now you drop right in and expect me to…”

“I’m not expecting anything.”

Matt wanted to hit Frank, hit him and hurt him like he… no. Matt kept his fist curled up near his hip, turned around, and started to walk away.

“Now you’re the one who’s leaving.” Frank’s voice was infuriatingly mild, and Matt stopped in his tracks. “You’re limping, Red. Get in, I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t need you.”

“I’m offering, that’s all.”

“I’m not limping.”

“Right.”

Matt dug fingers in his hip; one goon had gotten a good hit in and it did hurt. He just hated that Frank had noticed.

“We can stop get some food.”

“No, I… okay, fine, I’ll get in. Just home, yeah?”

“Just home, you got it.”

Gingerly, Matt climbed into the van and took his mask off; no need to let Daredevil be seen as anyone’s passenger and especially not anywhere near his building. They didn’t talk while Frank drove, and the rumble of the engine combined with the familiar sounds of Frank’s body lulled Matt into a light doze. Frank had to shake him when they arrived.

“Wake up, Red.”

“Huh…? Oh.” Matt fought with the seat belt and finally managed to untangle himself from it, his limbs and fingers a bit stiff after the drive. “Uh, thanks.” He opened the door, then closed it again. He wanted Frank to come up, and he wanted to leave Frank all alone in his van. He didn’t know what to say.

“Need a hand? Stairs will be hell on your hip.”

Matt didn’t want to say yes, not to an offer of help. But his hip was painful, and he was tired, and the stairs _would_ be hell on his own. “Yeah, okay.”

Once they’d reached his floor, Frank picked the spare key from behind the radiator, opened the door, and dropped a bag he’d brought up with him in the hallway. Matt was itching for a fight, a reaction; this mild version of Frank was making him antsy and on edge.

“You don’t have to stay,” Matt said. “I know you’d rather fuck off. Again.”

“You _know_ , eh?”

Matt limped to his couch and half-sat, half-fell on it. “That’s what you did.”

“And you’re bitter about it.”

“No.” He started to work on the ropes around his hands and wrists. “Where did you go, anyway?”

“Old army buddy of mine, he had a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Stayed there for a few weeks. Needed time off to think.”

Ropes undone, Matt coiled them up quickly before pushing himself up to his feet. “Tried to find you for an op, your place was empty and no one had heard anything from you and…”

“Aw, did you worry?”

Matt threw the bunch of ropes at him. “No!” He raised his fists and went after Frank then, ignoring the pain in his hip and focusing on Frank, his slow, regular breaths, his presence that took up all the apartment. “You left without a word,” and his jab didn’t connect. “People kept asking _questions_ … ” Frank dodged again, “and I couldn't even feel… I couldn't…” The words stuck in his throat, and. “They faded,” he finally managed as he took a step back. The marks Frank used to leave on him, the signs he’d been there even when he never stayed… they only lasted for a couple of weeks. But then Frank had been gone and so had the marks, and it all hurt, it hurt that Frank had left like everyone else, even if Matt knew it was his fault. Like with everyone else. Matt deserved it, he deserved the pain, and if he hit Frank then would hit back, and… 

“Hey, stop it.” Frank’s hands were like vises around his wrists, and Matt realized he’d been trying to hit Frank. “I’m not doing that anymore.”

“Fight me.” It was all Matt could think of. A fight – that he understood. Fists, and kicks, and pain; bruises and contusions and cuts and blood, that was familiar. Known. That, he could deal with. He’d learned to cope with it, to _thrive_ on it; it had been a lesson that Stick had drilled into his head early on and Matt had been a very good student. “ _Fight me!_ ”

“No.”

“Why _won’t_ you?”

“Fuck’s sake, Red…”

Matt kept trying to hit Frank, and Frank kept not responding in kind. On the contrary, he was just _there_ ; and when Matt stumbled when he forgot to compensate for his hip he steadied Matt, his hands warm and sure. He just wouldn’t fight back, and Matt was so enraged he didn’t realize Frank had steered them to the bedroom until he twisted and pushed Matt a little and made him fall on the bed.

“Got it out of your system already?” The mattress dipped when Frank put one knee, then the other, on the bed. “Pisses you off when I'm not fighting you, right?”

“You’re supposed to… you’re supposed to,” Matt said. He felt breathless; Frank was so close and yet he hadn’t managed to hit him and he was done, tired, exhausted and yet on edge; he could feel Frank’s arousal and his own and he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to feel Frank’s hands on him. No, he didn’t want a nice and gentle Frank who wouldn’t leave any reminder he’d been there on Matt’s skin when he inevitably went away again. What he _wanted_ was to keep something of Frank on him, to feel him even when he was gone.

But then Frank’s hand was on his neck, his cheek, and his breath was warm on Matt’s face and he’d just… he’d missed it. Him. _It_. So while Frank was waiting, his mouth so close but not close enough, Matt made up his mind. It was not quite what he wanted and he was pretty sure he’d regret it later but it was still better than nothing, still better than no Frank at all. So he pulled Frank down and kissed him, dragged him closer and dug his nails in Frank’s shoulders to keep him there, wrapped a leg around Frank’s and held on, tight as he could.

It was only later Matt remembered that they’d never kissed before; but by then he was halfway into sleep and he didn’t want to dwell too much on anything. He wanted to let go and sleep while Frank was still there, because he knew that when he’d wake up Frank would be gone and he wouldn’t have anything left to remember he’d been there. He didn’t want to be awake when Frank left.

* * *

Red slept like a baby, like an exhausted child. Frank remembered what that was like; he’d watched Lisa and Frank Jr often enough. Their little fists half-curled on the pillow, their lips parted, their determination to never wake up… it was all familiar. But tired kids didn’t have bruised knuckles or purple skin under their eyes, so Frank didn’t wake Red up.

He thought of leaving before sunrise, and then he thought that had really not worked out well, before. So he stayed. Red didn’t have curtains, and the morning light streaming through the window and hitting his face didn’t bother him. It did bother Frank though, so he left the bed and started exploring the apartment in the light of day. He’d never been here in full daylight; he’d only ever seen it drowned in the neon lights from the billboard and a few times the harsh light of a bulb, when he’d needed to see what he was doing – a couple stitches, picking gravel out of deep scrapes on Red’s skin, that sort of thing.

It had been a while, now.

After the talk with the nurse lady, he’d taken some time to think and then he’d just packed what little he had into his van, stored most of his weapons in a secure place in Queens, and drove to Gunner’s old cabin in the woods. No one was using it now, and it was as good a place as any to stay off the grid for a while. David had shown him how to keep a low profile when he looked for stuff online, so whenever he drove into one town or another for supplies he spent some time in a café or a diner with the laptop David had set up for him. He couldn't entirely stay out of shit, of course; so he ended cleaning out a few places – a drug den near a campus that preyed on students, a temp agency that was a cover for a way worse business. People officially hired a maid, but really they were buying a slave. Human filth, Frank knew, was everywhere, not just New York. He could still do what he needed to, even away from the city.

But most of the time, he just… was. Took runs in the forest, practiced his shooting skills with Gunner’s old crossbow and his own guns, read some books he’d gotten at a second-hand shop. It felt good to breathe air that wasn’t 80% car exhaust, and it cleared his head to be away from New York.

After a while, though, he couldn't ignore that urge in his head. He belonged in New York; the stench of it belonged in his nose. So he closed up the cabin again and drove back; and there he was now, standing in his underwear in a low-rise apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He picked up the discarded ropes from the floor and coiled them up again before stashing them in the chest where Red kept his gear, set their boots against the wall and hung the skull in the hallway. He didn’t think Red would trip on any of it, but who knew? Maybe he was one of those people who fumbled everything when they woke up, like Maria. Frank had never been there when Red woke up. He didn’t know.

Today was Friday and Red probably had to put on a tie and a suit and go be a good little attorney, but Frank didn’t really care. It was still early, and it didn’t yet feel like the world of regular people who went about their lives in the light of day should intrude. Frank poked around the kitchen until he found coffee, set the machine up, and took a shower while it was brewing. The bulb was shot there, unsurprisingly, so he left the door open as he washed up. He was in the hallway looking for fresh underwear in his bag when a faint, _Foggy, Foggy_ came from the jacket hung above his head. He didn’t think; he just stuck his hand in the pocket and hit the green Answer Call button. And then he froze. _Shit_.

“Matt? Matt, are you okay?”

“He’s, uh. Still asleep.”

There was a long silence on the other end. “Excuse me, but who are you? Matt usually answers his own phone.”

“Yeah. Uh. We… were up late last night.”

“ _Who are you._ ”

David would yell at him if he knew. “It’s Frank.”

“Frank C… um, _that_ Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“When you say you were up… do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Do I _need_ to know?”

“Nah. Just… regular stuff, yeah.”

“Anything to do with the smuggled weapons the police found this morning?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course.” Nelson sighed. “Can you take a message for Matt?”

In for a penny… “Sure.”

“Good. Fine. Okay.” Frank heard some papers rustle, then Nelson cleared his throat. “He doesn’t need to come in early this morning, or even at all. We had an appointment but our client’s canceled. Something about their stock blowing up in a warehouse near the docks.”

“I see.”

“Right.” More rustling. “Uh, do you often spend the night… I mean, it’s none of my business, obviously. Just. I know you’ve, uh, collaborated before, but…”

“No,” Frank said. It was true, after all. “I’ll pass the message along.” He hung up before Nelson asked more questions that he didn't want to answer, and slipped the phone back in the pocket. He shouldn't have answered, but the phone ringing while someone was sleeping… he hadn’t thought. It had been habit, once: don’t wake the kids, let Maria rest.

And now Red’s buddy knew Frank had spent the night, and he probably was thinking… well. He wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Frank slipped on the underwear and shirt he’d taken from his bag, poured some coffee in a mug, and went back into the bedroom. Red was still asleep. Hard to believe he hadn’t heard the phone with his freaky ears, but maybe he was just that tired. Frank leaned against the wall and looked down at him; he hadn’t moved an inch since Frank had left the bed.

After a while though, he started to stir; his hand closed and opened a few times on the pillow before coming up to rub against his face. He had to be aware of Frank standing there, coffee in hand, but he didn’t show a sign he was. He fumbled for his clock and almost made it fall from the table, but it finally said, “8:37am.”

“Eight… Oh, shit.”

Frank sat on the bed before Red could jump out of it. “Hey,” he said.

Red froze. “Frank.”

“Nelson called. Said you could sleep in today.”

That stumped him. Red blinked, reached out a hand to touch Frank’s thigh. “You’re leaving?”

“Thought you didn’t like me leaving.” He wasn’t even wearing pants right now.

“But you always do.”

“So do you, when we’re at my place.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Red’s voice was rising as he sat up, and Frank put his coffee on the floor before it got knocked out of his grip. “An extra pair of hands when you need backup and a quick fuck to wrap it up, right?”

“And you, Red? What do you want?”

“I…”

“Because you’re not very good at saying what you want; you’ve been a real asshole about it, even.”

That was the switch. Red’s face turned ugly and he snarled, “An asshole? Who kept going back to war because it was more fun killing people than staying with his family? Who would rather…”

“Stop it, Red. It’s not going to work.” It was this close to working, but Frank wouldn’t let it.

“What, you don’t like the truth?”

“You’re not going to push me into hurting you.”

“You couldn't hurt me if you tried.”

Frank pushed his fist on the deep bruising on Red’s hip and kept it there. “That what you want?”

“You’re not hurting me,” he said; but his jaw was tight. “I don’t care.”

“Liar.” He took his fist away and watched Red pant. He was trying to hide it, but not quite managing it. “Not very Catholic, is it?” But wanting the pain, _that_ was. Fucking martyr. What did he want to pay for?

“I’m a very bad Catholic.”

“I noticed.”

“Even God left me, did you know that? Didn’t let me die, tried to take away what I was; he punished me until I came back to him and now…”

“Now what?”

Red shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Frank called bullshit on that, but Red’s religious fucked-up-ness wasn’t his problem. “So what do you want?”

“World peace. To end hunger and climate change. To…”

Jesus Christ he _was_ _pushing_ _it_ , pushing it too far. But Frank knew what to do now; he knew how to piss the little shit off even more. Frank threw his own shirt to the floor and pushed Red back into the mattress; he was going to nail him more softly than he’d ever been and nothing would hurt and he’d make Red mad, madder than he’d ever been.

And it worked. When Red realized he couldn’t goad Frank into hurting him, he finally did it. He asked. Not with words: he took Frank’s hand and put it on his hip, right where the bruise was darkest. He didn’t say please, but Frank decided that it was good enough. He put just enough pressure to make Red’s eyes roll back and all in all, he was pretty pleased with the results.

* * *

Now, when he woke up, Matt’s first urge wasn’t to dig his fingers in a bruise to remember how it got there, and how it got worse. Who made it worse. He didn’t want the pain as often as before, now, and Frank didn’t mind hurting him a little if he did want it. Matt just did, sometimes; there were nights when it felt good, felt right. So Frank complied just as long as Matt didn’t try to goad him into it, of course; that… was a work in progress. Claire and Maggie had noticed he was a bit less volatile, that he got fewer injuries than before and that they healed better; but he hadn’t really answered their unspoken questions. He wasn’t really sure of what to say.

Sometimes, when he woke up, Frank was there: muttering at the coffee machine or still in bed next to him. It didn’t happen all that often, but often enough that Matt didn’t feel wrong-footed all the time like before; he knew how things stood now. Frank had left, but he’d come back after all; and now if he stayed the night, he also stayed until the morning.

The need to keep a tangible memory that Frank had touched him, had fucked him, had faded. He didn’t want to call it anything other than _fucking_ or _sex_ ; they just worked well together. That was all. Something… fit, and that was good enough. Matt was pretty sure he could never be in the kind of relationship Foggy had with Marci, and that ship had sailed for Frank when his family had died; but it was what it was, and that… well, it was good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Their casual _thing_ turns into something violent; Matt manipulates Frank into hurting him during sex.  
> This is not meant as a representation of domestic violence / abuse.  
> Happyish ending, but would not recommend it as a RL good ending.


End file.
